


Starving

by StagnationRebel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, BBC, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, Human Error, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, One Shot, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:29:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1488127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StagnationRebel/pseuds/StagnationRebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hungover, John wakes up in a room that isn't his with an arm wrapped around his waist. He remembers then all the laughing and touching, and now, he has no idea what to do, what Sherlock will do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starving

            John stirred, feeling an arm around his waist, a body pressed against his. _What the hell happened?_ His mind struggled to remember. There had been so much alcohol. He could still feel it sloshing in his stomach, feel the dull ache in his head as he tried to open his eyes. Everything was fuzzy, too bright from the sun. He knew he was looking out of a window, but- _where the hell am I?_ It wasn’t his window. This wasn’t his bed, his room.

            Arms shaking, John propped himself up on his elbows, completely shifting his position. The arm around him moved away and a groan reached his ears. A male groan. Heart clinching, John closed his eyes, the night before slowly emerging from the darkness. Pub after pub, drink after drink. So much in so little time to celebrate a birthday. John’s head had been spinning when he fell into his chair, his body tingling with warmth. Laughter and jokes caused him to lean forward, the alcohol causing him to go a little too far forward, slipping. His hand had reached out to grab the first thing in front of him. A knee.

            “I don’t mind,” a voice had said, deep, rumbling through John’s being.

            Something had over powered him, pushing him forward and his lips had met someone else’s, but not just _someone_. Sherlock’s.

            Looking over at his side, John looked at Sherlock as Sherlock’s arms curled around his pillow, sheets wrapped around his lower half. His dark hair was curled mess, head turned away from John.

            Pulling in a ragged breath, John carefully slipped from the bed and tip-toed out of Sherlock’s room. He found his clothing in the hallway and picked it up as he went. Flashes of being thrust against a wall with hands at his waist popped back into his mind; the memory brought back the feeling of Sherlock’s body against his. _How did this happen?_

            When he reached the living area, John quickly slipped on his clothes before heading up to his own room. Mrs. Hudson was trumping up the stairs, tray of tea in her hands. She was smiling up at him, eyes gleaming in the dull hallway.

            “Is he up yet?” she asked as she reached him.

            “Uh, no,” John replied, looking over his shoulder back into the living area. “No, he’s not.”

            Mrs. Hudson eyed him briefly, “Weren’t you wearing at yesterday?”

            “Yeah, I, uh, fell asleep in my chair,” John lied, avoiding eye contact. He could feel himself warming over, feel his stomach fluttering.

            “Right, deary,” her smile grew, driving John insane. _She knows. She bloody knows!_ “Well, your tea will be ready once you’ve changed.”

            With a nod, John was off. He shut the door to his room and leaned against it. His legs were shaking, heart throbbing. _God, really? what happened?_ John’s mind was still reeling. He and Sherlock. Sherlock and he. Had they? They had. John just couldn’t understand. He had never thought he was gay, never really considered being with a man. Sherlock, too, had never seemed even remotely interested in sex. With a woman or a man. But last night, something happened. Something changed, shifted. Not with their sexuality, but in their relationship, their feeling towards each other.

            Was it temporary? Permanent?

            John’s heart twisted. He didn’t know what to do. Hell, he didn’t even know what he was feeling. Whether it was the alcohol, or lust, or perhaps love maybe- _god, what if it was love?_ \- John had never been more confused. Or terrified. He wondered what Sherlock would think when he woke up, what he would do. John knew Sherlock well, but this was the one thing, _the one thing_ , John could never predict about him.

            Washing his hands over his face, John tried to breathe- a perfectly impossible task- as he grabbed a change of clothes and headed to the bathroom for a shower. It was a wash he didn’t want to leave because as soon as it started, John heard Sherlock moving about. He just wasn’t ready to face him.

            A laugh escaped John’s lips. He wasn’t ready. John had faced war, watching his comrades die while his own life was put in danger. It was his way of life. Danger. But this, _this,_ was the only thing of all the things in the world he couldn’t face. Sherlock.

            John finished his shower and dressed as slowly as possible. He felt like he was dressing for battle. It was strange, feeling like this. He’d never feared facing Sherlock before.

            There was a knock on the bathroom door, sending a serious of bombs to go off in John’s nerves. He jumped, gasping, heart drumming. His eyes stared at the door, horrified. _I’m not ready. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. Oh god, I’m not ready._

            “John,” Sherlock’s voice came through the door, clear and deep as if the door even wasn’t there. “We need to talk.”

            _Hell no, I am definitely not ready_. John couldn’t breathe. His throat went dry, making it impossible to swallow. _Oh god_ , his chest was tightening. He felt like his ribs were stabbing his lungs, like a hand was gripping his heart- Sherlock’s hand, giving him the power to strengthen John, or tear him apart.

            “Just a minute, Sherlock,” John tried to complain, but instead, his voice quivered. “I nee-”

            “John, I know you’re dressed already,” Sherlock cut him of. “You’re delaying. Just open the door.”

            Taking a deep breath, John licked his lips, but his tongue felt dry. He may not have been ready, but apparently Sherlock was. With a not-so-steady hand, John reached out and unlocked the bathroom door. He twisted the handle, trying desperately to keep it from jiggling. Sherlock would notice. Sherlock would see his fear. With another shaky attempt to breathe, John opened the door, still not ready to face the most nerve wracking moment in his life.

            Sherlock stood there, his hair still matted, eyes still dream-ridden. He was dressed in no more then his own bed sheets. John swallowed. _Why is Sherlock doing this? Christ, why?_ He wondered if Sherlock knew what he was doing. Sherlock was Sherlock after all.

            John grabbed hold of the sink, desperate to keep himself upright. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, an eyebrow twitching up. His eyes, which normally observed every small detail about everything and everyone around him, stayed entirely focus on John’s eyes. They held their gaze, unspeaking at first, making John sweat.

            “John,” Sherlock finally said, his voice low, “what happened last night?”

            His head tilting and jerking slightly forward as if he hadn’t heard correctly, John stared, heart stopping. “What do you mean?” he croaked. He inched forward, clearing his throat, blinking. “You don’t remember?”

            Sherlock’s lips twitched into a brief smile, “Oh no, I remember that. I’m asking you,” he let out a sigh, as if he were losing some of his resolve, “I suppose I’m asking what led to it. What led _you_ there, more specifically.”

            “You don’t know?” John asked, attempting to laugh, to joke, like they had the night before. “The great Sherlock Holmes?”

            “I am great,” Sherlock remarked, a hint of that smug attitude slipping into his voice. “At many things as you now well know.” For breath, they shared a quick smile. “But there’s always one thing that’s always been a mystery to me, for the most part, and that’s you, John Watson. Level headed, caring to a rather annoying extent, brave to the point of stupidity, occasionally even smart, and yet, I have no clue what led to last night; why it happened or how you feel about it.”

            John wanted to feel agitated, being called stupid and annoying, but he was rather used to it, found a smile trying to tug up his lips. He shook his head and took his first breath in the last two minutes.

            “What led to last night,” John said, more to himself then to Sherlock. He gave a light shake to his head, running a hand through his blonde hair. “What led to last night.” _If I was Sherlock, what would I say?_ “Human error, Sherlock. Only, it wasn’t an error.”

            Saying it out loud made it all the more real, made it all the more clear. The way Sherlock made him feel. No matter how stubborn and annoying and rude Sherlock could be, John knew he had a heart, one that he was in love with. It had been the danger, the thrill that drew John to 221B Baker Street, but it was Sherlock’s heart that kept him there, after all this time. What started out as friendship had grown, but had been denied for so long. It took alcohol to let the truth come out.

            Sherlock stood up straight, his bed sheet loosening about his collarbone. He looked over his shoulder as if to see something, but John noticed the pink in his cheeks. “Breakfast then?” he cleared his throat.

            “Starving,” John smirked as Sherlock turned back around. He could feel his nerves ease, the uncertainty ebb away. Sherlock was in love with John. John was in love with Sherlock. And this had always been their way of saying it to each other.


End file.
